


Show It Off

by vetiverite



Series: Revelations [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Artist's Life, Artists, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Durin AU, FiKiWeek 2020, Heavy Nesting, M/M, Revelations Verse, Sex Toys, Slice of Life, Unrelated Fíli and Kíli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24973675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: A discussion of household territory turns to the question of where to put the, um, toys.
Relationships: Fíli & Kíli (Tolkien), Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)
Series: Revelations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807621
Comments: 14
Kudos: 23
Collections: FiKi Week 2020





	Show It Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/gifts).



> For FiKiWeek 2020, a revisit of the Art School AU Linane and I created.

_Explain the differences again?_

Fíli is sitting on the floor with his back up against the couch, nursing a bottle of cold root beer. He’s just helped Kíli take down, dust, and reposition a shitload of bird-related _tchotchkes_ , soon to be followed by an equal number of fish figurines. But his is no idle question intended to pass the time. In subjects where one lacks expertise, it’s essential to turn to a master. 

_When you have more than three of a similar thing, but no two of those things are exactly alike, it’s a_ collection _,_ Kíli hollers from down the hall. _Like my chopstick rests and my hair clips and my antique keys. You can keep a collection in a drawer, out of sight, and be the only one who ever looks at it._

 _Or the only two,_ grins Fíli. Just that morning he’d opened his top bureau drawer to find a worrisome number of seashells mixed in with his socks. He’s finding that one gets used to such things with shocking ease around here.

_What about a display?_ he asks

_That’s easy,_ Kíli declares with authority. He swoops into the living room with his own bottle of root beer, flinging himself down beside Fíli on the rug. _A_ display _is a collection that’s laid out for everyone to see. Like my birdies and my buttons and my fish and that uranium glass vanity set you never let me—_

_I TOLD you, I won’t have that in our bedroom._ Fíli is impervious to debate on this point. _You can moon over it to your heart’s content so long as it stays in the antique store window._

Kíli gazes wistfully upward, as if beholding an unearthly green, mildly radioactive Holy Grail hovering above his head. 

To bring his partner back to earth – or at the very least their fifth-floor walk-up – Fíli offers him the following prompt: _Is your spice rack a collection or a display? It’s pretty comprehensive._

_I’d say… a collection for now. It’s all in the original containers from the store, which is boring. It’d be a DISPLAY, though, if I had fancier jars…_ Kíli takes a swig from his bottle, peeking at Fíli sidelong. The antique store had lots of said jars— and they had the added benefit of not glowing in the dark.

Shrugging in acquiescence, Fíli changes tack. _What about my books? Collection or display?_

_It’s called a_ library _, Fee._ But Kíli hesitates. _Unless they’re those fancy gold-tooled books that rich posers buy by the foot to make their houses in the Hamptons look more intellectual, in which case it’s bougie bullshit–_

_Maybe your spices are actually a library,_ Fili suggests cheerfully. _Some of them are fancy, and you DO have them alphabetized…_

Kíli only grunts.He used to order his spices by country of botanical origin, but you _do_ have to make certain concessions in a relationship, don’t you?

The thing about Kíli – magical, incurable, charming and infuriating – is that he has a mania for arranging. There’s nothing on this planet he can’t (and won’t) group, position, and prettify. Evidence of his fetish takes up nearly every flat surface in the apartment that he hasn’t yet deeded to Fíli. Even then, he’s shown a desperate need to blend their belongings together into new collections, displays, altars, shrines…

_EXHIBITS!_ Kíli slaps Fíli’s thigh. _Exhibits are displays of precious things that_ you yourself _made. If_ someone else _made them, it’s just a pile of crap. If you’re forced to show them together, then it’s the Whitney Biennial._

_And if you’re both dead, it’s the Louvre,_ smirks Fíli. _How about if you made it, but you’re not showing it to anyone? If it’s in a drawer, out of sight, like you said?_

Kíli slings his arm around his lover’s shoulders. _Then it’s called_ Fíli’s Portfolio— _unless he moves his ass and gets it over to Cheryl by high noon on Tuesday._

_I will, I swear. I’ve almost got it organized._ Fíli snuggles contentedly against Kíli’s side, but not without a bit of elbowing, both physical and verbal. _But what about you, pray tell? All of your art is on display, but only here in our living room. Why don’t you go see Cheryl yourself?_

Kíli looks thoughtful. _I’m not ready for that,_ he pronounces, then brightens. _Although if I wanted to, I could call up all our friends and serve them champagne and finger food in the living room and call it an opening._

_Let’s do it._ An idea strikes Fíli, too good to pass up. _What if we show YOU? Wear your Moroccan jingle belt and nothing else. We’ll still serve finger foods, but you’ll be the work of art. A one-man Met Gala—_

Kíli’s laughing so hard he completely fumbles his beverage. Droplets of root beer spatter the floor, and Fíli rubs them away with his sweatshirt hem. He just barely lets Kíli catch his breath before he returns to chasing the conversational hare: _What about your altars?_ _Are they collections, displays, what?_

_They’re…_ Kíli wheezes, wiping his eyes. _They’re… special._

By his own definition, _altars_ cannot be _collections_ , since their parts rely more on similarity of meaning than of form. More accurately, they’re _collations_ —gatherings of odd, disparate objects with a certain theme in common. Even more important, altars are _devotional_ , assembled with a love that goes deeper than mere acquisition. 

_You_ keep _collections,_ he says. _You_ tend _altars._

Throughout the apartment, Kíli has scattered little _retablos_ to the elements, to each of his dearest family members, to his ancestors and the tutelary house ghosts he swears haunt the corners and closets. He even has an altar to Manhattan itself, replete with a wreath of dried yellow leaves from the gingko tree outside their fire escape. His altar to Fíli is particularly tender; he adds to it nearly every day, and Fíli has begun to add to it, too. It serves as a message station between them, and why not? They share a soul, a home, a bed…

_What about our toys?_ Fíli suddenly blurts out.

Kíli spit-takes his last swallow of root beer. Wiping his face on his sleeve, he regards Fíli with wide, dumbfounded eyes.

_I’m serious,_ continues Fíli. _I suppose they make up a sort of collection, since we definitely have more than three of them. They’re all the same type of objects, give or take variations in, um, length. And girth._

Not a peep from Kíli.

_We can’t display them, for obvious reasons,_ intrepid Fíli persists. _If we_ exhibited _them, someone would call the cops. So we keep them in a drawer, out of sight, but…_ He proceeds very, very carefully. _They’re special, aren’t they? Special to us. Like the things that go on an altar._

Kíli sets down his empty bottle. His voice is hushed and incredulous _. You want to make an altar out of…?_

Fíli clumsily wriggles around. _Look, baby, ever since I moved in with you, you’ve been telling me I’d feel more at home if I made my own little corner. And… it’s OUR room, where we make love, and those are OUR things that we love each other with, and…_ He squeezes Kíli’s fingers, as astounded at the things he’s saying as Kíli obviously is. _I hate keeping them in a drawer. I want to bring them all out in the open. Top of the bedside table. Give them what they deserve for all they do for us—candles, flowers, the works._

Slowly, so slowly, Kíli leans forward so that their brows are touching.

_Baby,_ he whispers. _Baby, you’re giving me so… MANY… ideas._


End file.
